


When my heart meets my mind

by towardsmorning



Series: Perspectives [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Asexual Character, Canon Lesbian Character, F/F, Gen, See notes for warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:37:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/towardsmorning/pseuds/towardsmorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You're not so bad," Irene purrs. Sherlock has never purred in her life, and hopes dearly she will never have cause sound remotely like that.</i>
</p><p>A Scandal in Belgravia through a slightly different lens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When my heart meets my mind

**Author's Note:**

> So I was upset with many things ASiB chose to be (which conflicts supremely with how much I adored Irene as an individual in it), and my mind wandered to fix it fic. Somehow, this turned into genderbend fic, because that actually does shed light on a lot of this episode's issues. I'm also writing my personal interpretation of Sherlock as asexual, because I can.
> 
> On the other hand, I didn't want to rewrite literally the entire episode, so a compromise: this is a fairly 'choppy' (for lack of a better, less insulting word) fic that focuses on scenes I think would actually be altered significantly. Naturally, I can't take credit for much of the dialogue as a result; a lot of it comes from A Scandal in Belgravia, and I have no intent to claim credit for it!
> 
> Sherlock and John are both (cis) women here. Everyone else remains as they do in canon.
> 
> About warnings: because of how I'm writing Sherlock, it became clear that, uh, what Irene does is essentially sexual harrassment. She's using Sherlock's discomfort with sexuality to manufacture scenarios that will unsettle her. There's also some sexism/sexist language. So... yeah. Just a heads up.

_Her hand splays out across the small photograph. The red of her nails is stark and rich against the yellow-tinted newsprint, and Irene wonders if they'd contrast as sharply against the other woman's flesh, imagines dragging them down and leaving similarly red marks in their wake._

_She'll need to be careful with this one. Mustn't let sentiment get in the way, no matter how eye-catching a face like that might be._

*

Joan fixes a look at the neatly folded dress and heels for a moment, then glances back to Sherlock. The careful, considered silence lasts for all of five seconds before they crease up laughing, and then it takes a long time before either of them can speak.

"Are those even yours?"

"Of course not."

"No, I didn't think you owned any heels."

Sherlock doesn't dignify obvious statements with answers. After a moment Joan continues, mouth still twitching at the edges. "Buckingham Palace. I'm seriously fighting an urge to steal an ashtray."

Sherlock files that away as she glances around, the part of her brain running on automatic since Joan arrived still sorting through the information available. She's not lying when she tells Joan that she hasn't a clue why they've been brought here, but nor is she particularly concerned.

"Here to see the Queen?" Joan jokes, and oh, she has the most perfect timing.

"Apparently so."

Mycroft looks impatient while they laugh, and makes some inane remark about a lack of maturity, to which Sherlock replies only by tightening the sheet around her and tapping her feet impatiently. The novelty is starting to wear off already and as dull a case as it had been, she suddenly finds the concept of going back to 221B and explaining how the hiker had died to thick-headed police officers far more appealing.

The feeling only grows stronger as Mycroft thrusts the dress and those abominable shoes at her. Her eyes roll as he grits out some demand to get dressed in what he probably believes to be a commanding way, and she stands to make a retort just as another man enters. When she glances over his eyes are carefully looking everywhere but directly at her, and she smirks. Joan puffs out a sigh behind her, but Sherlock thinks it sounds at least as fond as it is irritated.

Her brother attempts to apologise for her, and Sherlock would be more annoyed about that if the reminder of her state of undress weren't greeted with a hasty cough and change of topic. Instead she continues to be amused.

The cough when she tries to storm out and finds herself rather less covered is louder and almost magnifies her amusement enough that having to give in and dress is worth it. Though it certainly goes no way at all towards encouraging her to wear those shoes; why on Earth Mycroft believes he can coax her into them is beyond her.

*

"Dominatrix," Mycroft says, every syllable considered, and she feels a twinge of discomfort, something physical low in her stomach. He smiles at her and the feeling intensifies, much as she attempts to push it down. "Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex."

"Sex doesn't alarm me," she snaps, and it's true, though the speed at which the words come out no doubt make it sound like a lie. It isn't alarm she feels, no adrenaline or shock or moments of clarity to heighten her senses as she considers the concept. Sherlock likes alarm, doesn't like this. It's just a dull throb of something inexplicable she can't seem to get rid of, and which she knows is visible in the curtness and speed of her answer.

"How would you know?" Mycroft continues, and Sherlock finds herself fighting the urge to snap back. _Don't give him anything more than he already has._

The photographs certainly don't help. Sherlock focuses on singling out features that mark them as performance on the part of the woman they depict, and the feeling begins to ease.

When the topic shifts to Adler's actual intent, she finally pushes those thoughts out of her mind and replaces them with far more interesting ones. Power, Sherlock understands.

*

_The shock on the other woman's face as Irene walks in is as amusing an expression she could have hoped for. It's well masked by the time Irene has straddled her, but now Irene knows where to look for it in the contours of Sherlock's face, and she has no objection to looking when the contours are so easy to appreciate. Not just shock- discomfort. Interesting. Not unsurprising, of course. 'The Virgin' was what she had been instructed to play upon, after all. But interesting, oh yes._

_She resists the temptation to trail her painted nails along a cheekbone, and instead wonders aloud about slapping them. The discomfort increases, and Irene doesn't bother to hide her smirk._

_This will be easy. Though, she makes sure to note in the interest of self awareness, it would probably be easier if she were acting her attraction out instead of feeling it._

*

Irene Adler's body is blank.

Not simply unclothed. Blank. It's illogical, it's ridiculous- but Sherlock can't find anything at all in its curves and pose and flesh. Even the woman's makeup tells her nothing beyond the fact that it was clearly done with intent to confuse and hide, every line so precise and deliberate as to be meaningless.

The feeling is terrible. Sherlock finds herself glancing back to Joan, for an anchoring presence, and ignores the odd look she receives in return.

"Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Miss Holmes? However hard you try, it's always a self portrait."

Sherlock knows what that means, but pretends not to, baiting and patronizing automatic as breathing. "You think that I'm the type to be mugged handing out religious propaganda?"

"No," Irene continues, smirk growing more irritating by the moment, "I think you're damaged, delusional, and believe in a higher power. In this case, yourself."

The remark drags a glare out of Sherlock and she doesn't feel the need to hide it, though a small part of her is verging on impressed.

(Another small part is fighting the urge to leave the room, because the stare that accompanies Irene's remark is one thing Sherlock _can_ read. Irene doesn't even try to hide that she thinks of herself as predatory. The feeling is one she is so unaccustomed to that Sherlock has no idea what to do with this knowledge.)

"Somebody loves you," and Joan's start is visible in the corner of her eye, "-well if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too."

Joan's reaction is a clearly offended laugh, and Sherlock files that offence away for later inspection. More importantly, it becomes apparent that Joan is unlikely to demand Irene change her current state of undress; her expression is non-plussed but hardly worried, which makes sense, Sherlock supposes. After all, they're all women here.

This does not prevent Sherlock averting her eyes as she wordlessly hands Irene her coat.

"Feeling exposed?" Irene smirks, taking the coat and dangling it on one finger. Sherlock crosses to the other side of the room and tells herself it isn't avoidance. "Don't know where to look?" At the lack of response Sherlock gives, Irene laughs and finally puts the coat on.

Something Sherlock hadn't noticed winding tightly somewhere inside her abruptly releases. She wishes it wasn't relief.

*

_"How was it done?" Irene asks, and oh, this is good. The confusion, the darting look in her eyes; Sherlock Holmes practically radiates a discomfort that Irene thinks must feel quite uncharacteristic to her. The reaction to her quip about brainy being the new sexy even startles an exclamation out of her, and Irene almost laughs._

_Joan looks close to amused, but there's slight concern when she glances at Sherlock. Clearly Irene hadn't been wrong when she guessed Sherlock was not unloved._

_As they banter back and forth about the hiker's death, Irene compiles what she knows so far. A naked woman makes Sherlock uncomfortable, despite Sherlock being a woman herself. The discomfort is a profound one. There's plenty to deduce from that, she thinks, smiling internally._

_Everything turns to chaos quickly, and at the end of it all, Irene has won. Perhaps, she thinks regretfully, there won't ever be a need for any approach more direct._

_At least she knows for sure now that Sherlock knew where to look._

*

Molly enters the room and sheds her coat, apparently an action that warrants some fuss from the rest of the room. Sherlock represses the immediate urge to roll her eyes through sheer force of will and the memory of the promise Mrs. Hudson extracted from her, to 'be on your best behaviour, just tonight, you're a good girl really'. Molly's awkwardness is palpable, even more so once she's shed her layers and subjected herself to the room's scrutiny, but there's a pride there too that makes Sherlock snort. "I've seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems," she says, and the room goes silent. It's pathetic, really, and Sherlock doesn't hesitate to let Molly know.

The following exchanges go as expected, and Sherlock catches Mrs. Hudson's disapproving tuts but pretends not to. Joan snaps "Shut up Sherlock," and not for the first time that night Sherlock wonders what, precisely, is so enchanting about Christmas that people expect her to pretend to _care_ more than the rest of the year.

Even so, a part of her feels almost generous when she reels off Molly's plans. After all, this is surely something Molly would want others to know. It may not be her area, but Sherlock has been led to believe that a new relationship is a point of pride or something of the sort; it isn't until she flicks open the tag attached and reads her own name that she realises she's misjudged.

Oh, she'd known about Molly's feelings for her, known from the moment they met Molly was closeted, probably bisexual, quietly ignoring women in favour of men. It made her easy to manipulate, Molly's eager, blushing affection tripping over nervousness somebody might know. As if anybody _didn't_ by this stage.

Of course, they certainly all do now.

Molly is looking at Sherlock and she doesn't only look upset, she looks terrified. "You always say such horrible things," she manages at last, and Sherlock hears the accusation under the quivering tone to her voice, can't miss it, doesn't know _how_ to miss it. She has a sudden stark memory of what it felt like to be pinned by Irene Adler's deliberate and predatory gaze, layers peeled away while Joan watched whether she liked it or not.

"I am sorry. Forgive me," is out of her mouth before she registers this fully, and then because the silence seems to need filling, adds, "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

She isn't sure if the kiss to Molly's cheek will help or not, but she does it anyway. This seems to be a cue for Irene Adler to make her presence known, and Sherlock ignores the ugly lurch in her stomach at the sound, breathy and nauseating, as she has been training herself to do; waves Molly away, pulls her mind back to focus on important things like phones and (soon to be) dead women.

*

Sherlock takes the cigarette knowing exactly what Mycroft will think and not particularly caring.

"Look at them," she says, "they all _care_ so much." Her eyes linger on the woman crying, and Mycroft's eyes linger in turn on Sherlock for a moment before he turns to watch as well. "Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

Mycroft pauses before he answers. In that pause Sherlock hears a lifetime of sharp glances and disapproving frowns; _don't be so cold, Sherlock, you scare men off you know, I just want you to be happy sweetheart, can't you just smile more, whatever is the matter with you-_

"Caring is not an advantage," he says after a moment, and she politely refrains from remarking on the fact that he is already preparing to call Joan as soon as she leaves.

*

_"She's writing sad music," Joan says with an audible sense of irony. "Doesn't eat, barely talks- only to correct the television. I'd say she was heartbroken, but she's Sherlock, she does all that any-"_

_Irene doesn't deny that there's a certain thrill in cutting her short. The look on her face is one Irene allows herself a moment of pride over having put there, and she memorises it. She has never been in denial over any love of power she has._

_"Hello, Doctor Watson."_

_Irene waits for her to make the next move; she is in no rush, is very much content to let the doctor work through her shock. The words that eventually push outwards into the corridor are expected: "Tell her you're alive."_

_"She'd come after me," and even if she's playing a game, she knows it's true. Irene has her hooks well and truly embedded in Sherlock Holmes now, and they all know it._

_"I'll come after you if you don't."_

_"I believe you," and that's true as well. Irene thinks that Joan Watson is a dangerous woman to have as an enemy. Admiration slips into Irene's voice, quite unintentional, absolutely genuine. She thinks, now, that she understands what Sherlock sees in the woman. Not remotely Irene's type, but the appeal to a person like Sherlock, somebody just familiar enough to be reliable, just harsh enough to push at boundaries... yes, Irene understands. She certainly understands enough to know that Joan Watson is never, ever going to help her, so it's definitely a good thing Irene doesn't actually need her to._

_They banter, although Irene doubts the other woman sees it that way, and eventually get to the important parts. "Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping and now I need it back, so I need your help."_

_"No."_

_Of course not._

_"It's for her own safety."_

_"So's this," and oh, now isn't that interesting? "Tell her you're alive."_

_"I can't."_

_"Fine," and goodness, does Sherlock truly care that much, or is Joan Watson simply incapable of seeing even the slightest hurt done to her flatmate without retaliation? "I'll tell her, and I still won't help you."_

_"What do I say?"_

_"What do you normally say?" Joan all but screams, and here they are, the both of them and they've finally found their way to the elephant in the room, Joan practically vibrating with frustration and Irene smiling placidly at the entire situation._

_Jealousy is a fickle thing. Sometimes it's easier for people to see in others than it is for them to see it in themselves._

_Irene reels off the list of texts; she admits they're hardly original, but it's not as though Sherlock has the slightest experience with this sort of thing anyway. She glances up halfway through to see Joan's face gone slack in amazement._

_"You... flirted... with Sherlock Holmes?"_

_"Flirted at," she retorts, "she never replied."_

_Which is a matter Joan seems to take offence to. Irene updates her impression of Sherlock accordingly. She had assumed Sherlock simply found the matter unworthy of attention, or didn't enjoy the mundanity of text messaging. Apparently not the case._

_"Does that make me special?" she asks, honestly curious._

_"I don't know. Maybe."_

_"You jealous?" and she's still being honest, watches in amusement at the expected offence, expected denial, expected flash of fear. She types out a text as she waits. Joan rounds it up with "I'm not actually gay," and Irene sighs, shaking her head._

_"Well, I am. And look at us both. After the same thing, aren't we? Tell me, Doctor Watson- what do you make of that?"_

_It's attention. Always the attention, the knowledge you've directed somebody's gaze onto you. Irene wonders if Joan has any idea of the power she holds in that regard, the power she holds over Sherlock Holmes._

_Irene hears the text alert and knows Sherlock followed Joan, not Irene. A part of her wants to be annoyed; the rest of her can't quite manage._

*

Molly is quiet at the morgue. She opens her mouth to ask, clearly about the phone Sherlock is X-raying, then closes it. Without bothering to hide her irritated sigh Sherlock answers the silent question- "Yes, it's a phone," and hopes it will be enough to encourage Molly to leave. It isn't.

Molly manages to gain control of her mouth long enough to ask "whose phone is it?"

"A woman's."

"Your girlf-" it rises to a squeak and Molly cuts herself off halfway through, and Sherlock suddenly recalls the party. _Ah._

"You think she's my girlfriend because I'm X-raying her possessions?"

"Well- we all do silly things."

"Yes," Sherlock says, and suddenly it all makes sense.

*

No, it doesn't. The phone is still locked, and Irene Adler is still texting her incessantly.

The lurch at every alert doesn't go away. Sherlock still can't bring herself to change it. She'd feel like it was admitting defeat.

*

When Irene shows up, stripped bare in a way that has nothing to do with nudity, Sherlock is almost relieved. Not least of all because there are faint but there traces of things to be read about the woman now; Sherlock can tell where she's been and how long ago it was that she slept in an actual bed. Small things. Important things.

Still no code for the phone, however, and Sherlock curses even as she can't help but admire the ways in which Irene exceeds her expectations.

"I told you that camera phone was my life. I know when it's in my hand."

"Oh, you're rather good," she says, and immediately regrets it.

"You're not so bad," Irene purrs. Sherlock has never purred in her life, and hopes dearly she will never have cause sound remotely like that.

"Hannah," Joan blurts, and Sherlock stares in confusion. "Joan Hannah Watson. Just, if you were looking for baby names."

The thought makes Sherlock twitch. The retort about biological impossibility dies on her tongue when she realises that Irene will take it as an opening; she considers that evidence she is learning, slowly.

*

The code is simple enough. Not a code at all, in fact, and Sherlock can't help herself, just wants to finally get one over on this fascinating, _infuriating_ woman. A small, childish part of her which she'd like to ignore wants to say _look, I did it, and you understand, more than anyone else, more even than Mycroft because everyone expects **you** to care too, to smile more and swoon and all those terrible things neither of us will ever really manage. It's fine. I did it. There is nothing wrong with me._

Five seconds. If Irene hadn't kissed her, it would have been four and a half.

*

_"I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice."_

_Irene means it._

_Sherlock's refusal is in every line of her face. Irene wonders what it is, precisely, that has her so scared, and does not understand at all what she is supposed to take from the response._

_Women, she reflects, view sex so differently than men sometimes. It isn't a bad thing, but it does make life harder. There is a reason she has had precisely one female client in her entire career, and she thinks it has to do with power and who can afford to give it up._

*

"One lonely, naive woman," Mycroft says, and Sherlock knows exactly where his monologue is going. Knows precisely what he brought her here to say. She feels her teeth grit as he continues, forces her hands not to clench, knows any movement will only validate him; she wants to say _no, no, you've got it all wrong, it's not that, it was never that, it never will be._ Wants to tell him that it isn't sentiment, isn't sex, if he'd only _listen-_

One small part of her brain is reflecting on the irony of Sherlock Holmes, of all people, being lectured on letting emotion get in the way.

The lifetime of recriminations, _frigid bitch_ and _fucking cunt_ and worse, they fall away and she hears _too emotional_ and _needy_ , hears Mycroft's unspoken assumption: perhaps if he'd just had a _brother_ , never mind it had been the MOD _man_. Typical, she wants to spit, but suddenly Irene Adler is there.

It isn't a surprise when she brushes past, eyes locked on Mycroft. _Mr._ Holmes.

*

The thrill when Sherlock looks at Irene Adler, undone by her emotions, all by Sherlock's own hand, her logic acting like the finest scalpel, is visceral.

That will never be Sherlock.

( _Are you all right?_ she hears her mind echo, and feels less sure, but denial is something Sherlock proves surprisingly talented at.)

"Are you expecting me to beg?"

"Yes."

"Please."

Sherlock recalls their first meeting, Irene's body blank and her own betraying her. This feels infinitely better, and comes as a relief. Irene Adler is never going to be impenetrable again.

*

_Sherlock comes. Irene had known, really, that she would, but the other woman's penchant for drama had her thinking that rescue would be late, posthumous; the relief on her face at being proven wrong is real._

_She considers this to be a victory. At the very least, it counts as a tie-breaker. She is here at all because of Sherlock, but later, she will be free because of Sherlock, and Irene knows that the detective will never quite forget the fact that knowledge of pupil dilation and heart rate did not prove enough to keep her away. Did not prove enough to allow for the kind of detachment she craves._

_Sherlock cared enough to jump continents at Irene's demand._

_Irene counts that as an advantage._

*

Sherlock's voice trembles just slightly when she asks Joan for the phone.

Joan hears what she wants to hear, and hands it over. When she finally leaves, Sherlock turns it over in her hands and smiles, briefly. Not happily, but respectfully.

( _"If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment."_ )

Sherlock really hopes Joan doesn't recall that particular observation, all things considered.

**Author's Note:**

> The line at the end is from A Study in Pink. I have hopes that parallel was deliberate...
> 
> Finding an alternative to 'vicar' was really, really hard. Sorry it sucked.
> 
> Likewise, I kind of wanted to change Sherlock's name, but then the pun doesn't work. On the other hand, Sherlock was originally and correctly a surname so far as I've found, so I assume it isn't actually a masculine name per se.
> 
> Title from My Manic and I by Laura Marling.


End file.
